Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  “Like a newspaper.”

  “A business? Print these things you’re talking about and sell them?”

  “It could happen. That’s why I asked Caleb to be here.”

  Caleb started. “Me? To do what?”

  “You worked with a newspaper. You wrote for your regiment in the army. You could handle the print shop.”

  “I could what?”

  “Handle the print shop.”

  “The newspaper I worked for is gone. The one that replaced it is gone. I tried to get work there a few weeks ago, but he was closing his office and leaving Boston the next day. There isn’t a newspaper in town because nobody can buy newspapers! The only question is which is worse right now, the newspaper business or the shipping business.”

  “Now wait a minute, wait a minute,” Covington said. “Matthew, where will you get the things you intend to publish with this committee? Will you write it? Billy?”

  “I think Jefferson will give us all the support he can. Madison with him. Maybe others. They see what this could become.”

  Billy cut in. “Start a new business. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Start a Committee of Correspondence. If a newspaper will help, start that, too. If that’s starting a new business, then that’s what it is.”

  “I doubt it could ever support three families.”

  Matthew interlaced his fingers on his desktop. “I never thought it would. It just seemed like something we could do. Maybe should do.”

  Caleb stood and stretched. “With all this business about government, did Jefferson say anything that will save Dunson & Weems Shipping?”

  Matthew shook his head. “We better take those three written inquiries down to the bank. It’s all we have left.”

  Covington stood and walked to his desk. “I’ll get the papers.”

  Billy looked at his watch. “Bank’s open. When do you want to go?”

  There was resolve in Matthew’s voice. “The sooner the better. Thomas, do you want to come?”

  “If it will help.”

  Matthew turned to Caleb. “You want to come?”

  “Someone needs to stay here.”

  The three men put their coats on, Covington tucked the papers into his inside pocket, and Billy held the door while they walked out into the sounds and smells of the Boston waterfront on a calm, warm, resplendent spring morning. Caleb stood in the doorway, hands in his trouser pockets, watching them until they were out of sight before he left the door open and walked back into the office. He sat down at Matthew’s desk and leaned back in the chair, working with his thoughts.

  I wonder what Jefferson said that changed Matthew so much—came back thinking twenty years ahead but nothing to save the business now—isn’t that what started the war?—talk that sounded so right and did nothing to stop the killing?—talk is all that’s left for people who can’t make things happen—we would still be up the James River with the Rebecca if we’d let the talk go on—the talk stopped when we sailed her out.

  He rose to add a few more sticks of kindling to the fire, and walked to the front door to stand for a time, watching the waterfront.

  Those men out there working for almost nothing—not enough to take care of their families—praying for better times—expecting an answer—can’t they see that better times depend on them?—not prayer—seems like they’d finally understand that the almighty business is nothing but a way to avoid blame for our own failures—they say things are bad because the almighty has willed it for the good of his children, but none of us knows what his will is, and we won’t admit that things are bad because we’ve made them bad, and they’re not going to change until we change them, not the almighty.

  He went back to Matthew’s chair and sat in thoughtful silence for a time before he once again rose, impatient, irritated by inaction, wanting to come to grips with the torment they had all endured for too long. He was walking toward the front door when Billy entered, Matthew and Covington behind. They were silent, refusing to look at Caleb, defeat plain in their faces.

  Caleb spoke first. “The bank said no.”

  No one answered as they came past the gate to Matthew’s desk, where they all sat down.

  Matthew nodded. “They said no.”

  “How much time?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Well,” Caleb said, “that’s the end of that.”

  Covington looked at him. “The only thing I can think of is to get one of the companies that contacted us and try to work out a transaction like the last one. The buyers and sellers arrange the money, and who’s going to pay us.”

  Billy shook his head. “Those merchants made it clear they don’t have the hard money, and can’t get it. They were asking us to find it.”

  Matthew had his elbows on the desk, and his face buried in his hands. He straightened and dropped his palms flat on the table. “I can’t find a way. I don’t know what we’re to do.”

  Billy took a deep breath and turned to Covington. “Isn’t this where you found yourself when you sold to us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe we can find a buyer for the company with enough—”

  The rattle of the front door turned them all to look. The door swung wide and the brilliant sunlight made a silhouette of the tall man entering. Eli Stroud held his Pennsylvania rifle in his left hand and carried an ironbound oak chest on his right shoulder. He set the rifle on the counter and used both hands to set the heavy chest beside it.

  “Eli!” exclaimed Billy. He strode to the counter, followed by the other three, and thrust his hand out. “What . . . it’s good to see you, but what are you doing here?” He turned. “You know Matthew, and Caleb.”

  “I do.” They shook hands and exchanged greetings as Billy continued. “You remember Thomas Covington? The man who sold us the shipping business.”

  Eli and Covington nodded and shook hands.

  Billy inquired, “What brings you back up here? Did things work out in New York?”

  “They did. The barrister was as good as his word. Took a few days but he got the money delivered from the bank.”

  Relief showed in Billy. “Good. I thought you’d be well on your way back to Vermont by now.”

  “I would be, but I’ve been thinking.” He pointed to the chest. “Nearly twenty-nine thousand British pounds sterling in there.”

  All eyes except Eli’s locked onto the chest, and an electric feeling began in the plain, austere, slab-sided room.

  “What would I do with twenty-nine-thousand pounds sterling up there in Vermont? What is there to buy?”

  The room was deadly quiet.

  “I’ve got a daughter to raise, but she won’t need much, until she gets married. I thought I’d come back here and make an offer.”

  Billy saw it coming and his breath came short.

  “I’ll take a few pounds—maybe five hundred—on with me, and leave the rest of it here with you to run your shipping business. There will always be need for shipping on this coast, and the hard times can’t last forever. If this money will see you through until things change, it seems to me you should become profitable. If you do, we’ll agree on some fair way to repay the money and share in the profits.”

  For five full seconds no one spoke, and then Billy exclaimed, “You don’t want to do that. The country’s headed for more trouble, and things could happen. We could lose it all. No, you don’t want to do that.”

  “Let me finish. I won’t put it in a bank because banks are closing in every state. I don’t know enough about farming to buy a farm, and I know almost nothing about manufacturing.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know much about shipping either, but I think you men do. But that’s not the main reason I came back here.”

  He stopped long enough to order his thoughts. “Things can happen. I could be gone in the next fifteen years. My sister Lydia and her husband Ben are good people. They’d see to it Laura was raised right, but neither one of them understands schools. Colle
ges. Matthew’s been to college at Cambridge. Billy, you’re trained in business. The reason I came here is that when Laura reaches school age, you two will see to it she has enough money to maybe go to college. Travel. Here. Europe. See things. Learn. Become more like her mother. Whether I’m still alive or not, you two will handle that better than I can.”

  The four men stood stone-still, stunned. Matthew broke the silence.

  “No, Eli. We could lose it all. I couldn’t live with that. I’ll do anything I can to help you with Laura, but I can’t be responsible for the money.”

  Eli’s voice was steady. “Then what shall I do with it? Take a chance on burying it in the forest? The worst place I could put it now is in a bank. Any bank. Or invest it in any business. That leaves me hiding it in the cellar beneath the kitchen in Lydia’s house, or burying it somewhere on the farm or in the woods.”

  Matthew shook his head and looked at Billy. “I’ve made my answer. You’ll have to make your own.”

  Billy shook his head. “Eli, it’s a fortune! Save it. Hide it if that’s how you see it. I couldn’t bear it if we lost it for you.”

  Eli raised a hand. “Then don’t lose it! There’s enough there to pay your bank note, if I remember right, and some left to pay for cargo. There are merchants looking for shipping. I doubt there are men more able to handle the business than you. Go ahead with your business. Just be careful.”

  It was too much, and it had come too fast. Not one of the four men facing Eli could find words.

  Eli looked at them in turn. “Do you want time to think it over?”

  Covington looked at both Billy and Matthew, but remained silent.

  It was Caleb who raised a hand, pursed his mouth for a moment, and spoke casually to Matthew.

  “What will you know tomorrow that you don’t know right now?”

  Matthew was wide-eyed. “Nothing. It just came on so sudden.”

  Caleb turned to Billy. “Will you be any wiser tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be a little more used to the idea.”

  A look of disgust crossed Caleb’s face. “You two sound like a committee! It’s time to quit talking and do something.”

  Eli waited a few moments before he concluded. “I’ve thought about this for a week. It’s a good thing for both of us, but mostly me. I don’t know of another way I can rest, knowing Laura will be taken care of. I’ll wait a day if you want the time, but there’s no reason for it.”

  Covington cleared his throat. “You asked me to stay on so I could advise against mistakes. I think Eli’s offer is sound. Good for everyone. The trouble is it came too suddenly, and it seems too good to be true. That will pass. I advise you to take it.”

  Billy turned to Matthew. “What do you think?”

  “At first I thought no. Now I’m not so sure. You?”

  “I think Thomas is right. It came too fast and sounds too good. But it’s sound. It could be good for everyone.”

  Matthew took charge of his reeling thoughts. “All right. I agree to it.”

  Billy turned back to Eli. “One thing I insist on. We go to the lawyer and have him put all this in writing so no one misunderstands. A copy has to go to Ben and Lydia so they know the money’s here if they ever need it.”

  Eli nodded. “Agreed.”

  Eli picked up his rifle, Billy and Caleb took the handles on either end of the chest, and the five of them walked out of the office and turned east, toward the law office. Covington paused long enough to lock the door, then hurried to catch up. Dockhands slowed and stared at five men striding on the waterfront, one with a rifle, two carrying a strong box between them.

  A stout woman with a round face and her hair pulled back in a ball behind her head gaped when the door to the law office of Robert Strand swung open and five men walked in. It was the one dressed in beaded buckskin and carrying the long rifle, with a black tomahawk shoved through his belt, that stopped her breathing for a moment and turned her face pasty white.

  She addressed them all, but her eyes never left Eli. “You had an appointment?”

  Billy answered. “No. But we need to see Mr. Strand as soon as possible.”

  “You’ll w-w-wait here, please. I’ll inquire.”

  She flew across the small room, through a door, and it slammed shut. Inside, the woman threw a hand to her heaving breast as she blurted, “Mr. Strand, there are five men out there. One has a musket. A big one. And a tomahawk. Like an Indian. And they’ve got a big box. Chest. They demand to see you. Shall I run for the constable?”

  Strand, small, intense, with busy eyes that never stopped moving, asked, “Who are they?”

  “I recognize two of them. The one with the musket and the one with reddish hair. They were here a few weeks ago. You wrote a statement for them to sign.”

  Strand’s eyes narrowed as he forced his memory. “Billy Weems? Built strong? Sandy hair? And a tall man in leather?”

  “Yes. Billy Weems.”

  Strand stood and followed her into the outer office. In the two seconds it took him to cross the small room he took an impression of each man.

  “Mr. Weems. Nice seeing you again. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes. We need a paper.”

  Strand gestured. “Stand the uh . . musket over there in the corner, and come on in.”

  One minute later the five stood in front of Strand’s desk, him facing them from his side.

  Strand fussed with his watch in his vest pocket. “What’s this about a paper?”

  Billy and Caleb set the chest thudding on Strand’s desk, and gestured. “This is Eli Stroud. We were here not long ago. You wrote a paper for him to take to New York.”

  Strand nodded grandly. “I remember. Of course.”

  “Mr. Stroud’s back, and wants to deliver this money to myself and Mr. Dunson to be used as we see fit, provided we take care of his daughter when she reaches an age for college and travel.”

  Strand stared at the oak chest, with the heavy black iron straps and the huge lock. “I see. That’s called a trust agreement. How much money?”

  “About twenty-nine thousand British pounds sterling.”

  Strand froze, then dropped into his chair, staring. “How much?”

  “About twenty-nine thousand British pounds sterling.”

  Strand cleared his throat and by force of will tried to assume an attitude of nonchalance. “Of course. Well, be seated, gentlemen. I’ll have to get all the details. There are more chairs outside. Hmmmmm. Twenty-nine thousand pounds. British sterling. I can see why you carry that . . . uh . . . musket out there, Mr. Stroud.”

  Notes

  The events and characters depicted in this chapter are fictional.

  Boston

  Early May 1784

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  * * *

  Captain Theodore Pettigrew stopped in the archway to the tiny kitchen in his small Boston home while he thrust his arms into his coat and worked with the brass buttons. His wife turned to him while she shaved curls from a bar of brown soap into a wooden tub of steaming water on the cupboard, stirred with the knife, then lowered the breakfast dishes into the froth.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be home,” he said. “Matthew couldn’t say.”

  Clad in a common gray work dress, dark hair held back from her pretty, heart-shaped face by a white bandanna, Dora Pettigrew stopped to scoop up the baby who had crawled to grasp her skirt, whimpering. There was a sense of near desperation mixed with guarded hope in her eyes. “Do you think it might be work?”

  Pettigrew’s face clouded. “Don’t know. Maybe.” His upper lip and chin were both too long, and his eyes seemed cavernous beneath large brows. His arms and legs were sinewy and his wrist bones seemed far too large; altogether he seemed slightly awkward, uncoordinated. Yet the impression faded when things had to happen. Some could remember the day mutiny erupted among sailors aboard a ship under his command. Pettigrew strode into the four mutineers, and in less than one minute, two of them
were unconscious on the deck, while the others were backing away, staring at their captain in white-faced shock. No one ever thought of him as handsome, yet, when one looked into those gray eyes, appearance faded. They were the eyes of a man honest to the bone and without fear of standing on right principle. It was the honest, principled man Dora had fallen in love with and married, not the one with the long face who danced woodenly.

  “I hope it’s work,” she said fervently.

  “I think it might be,” he said. “Don’t fix for me until I’m home.”

  She followed him across the parlor to the front door and watched him walk out into the incomparable beauty of Boston in the spring. Birds, squirrels, trees in full leaf, flower beds inside white picket fences, carts and buggies and people moving in the streets with hearts light and full in the sure knowledge that the gray, dead cold of winter was past and life had been renewed once again. He turned to exchange waves with her and was gone. He walked rapidly, with purpose, the few blocks south to the waterfront, saying nothing, acknowledging those who nodded a Boston greeting to him. He slowed as he came to the weather-beaten, unpainted office with the sign above the door, walked in, and stopped.

  The sharp smell of printer’s ink filled the room, and in the far left corner of the worn business room stood a printing press with its tray in place, filled with lead letters, and the press-plate raised on the great screw with the cross-arms on top. A large wooden box was shoved against the press, half filled with ink-smeared papers loosely thrown in. Two rags black with ink smears were crumpled on the print-tray. On the floor next to the wastepaper box was a second smaller box with sheets of precut paper, ready for the press. There were three desks in the sparse room, all worn and marred, and each was now piled with paperwork. The grime had been washed from the windows, and the spring sunlight streamed in to make odd-shaped shafts of light on the counter and floor. Pettigrew proceeded toward the counter, questions plain on his long face.

  Matthew rose from his chair behind his desk. “Captain. Glad you could come. Bring a chair and sit with us.”

  Billy, Covington, and Caleb all stood to shake his hand, then Billy held the gate up for Pettigrew to enter, and all four men sat down facing Matthew. Each sensed a quiet, expectant excitement.